“Can I help you?”
My head snaps to the tiny desk in the corner where Rob Daniels, my newest hire, has taken up residence. This office had been vacant for nearly six years, so it makes sense that he’s found himself in here.
“Scram, Daniels! We need the room.” Kate shoos him out.
“But what—oh.” His eyes widen when he notices the wide-mouth flanges and collector cups in Kate’s hands. “Got it.” He salutes Kate and gives me a small wave before racing out of the room, forgetting his phone and morning latte on the desk.
“There,” Kate says, stepping back to assess her setup. It’s perfect, everything aligned evenly and within arm’s reach.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She doesn’t say anything else as she kisses the top of my head and locks the door on the way out. The tardy bell rings, my cue to start the grueling pump process.
Once it gets going, I feel tears well in my eyes then slowly bubble over onto my cheeks.
“Hold yourself together,” I reprimand myself, aggressively wiping and sniffling my snot. I pull out my phone and FaceTime the nanny, knowing I won’t be able to make it all day without seeing Josie.
“Hi, Ms. Jones,” Cindy, my South African nanny, whispers on the screen. The room she’s in is dark, and the sound machine whirls in the background, a familiar cacophony of ocean waves and wind rustling in the trees now flowing into this tiny corner office.
“Where’s Josie?” I ask, feeling the need to whisper as well.
She places a finger to her mouth before panning the phone over to the opposite end of the room, where my beautiful baby girl is sleeping peacefully in her crib. The sight seems to be all my body needs to unleash everything. The tears. The milk. The air in my lungs. The devastating sadness of having to leave her at home. The irrational pent-up rage toward everything. It all comes rushing out in a shuddering gasp. Icover my mouth, afraid to wake Josie, and click off the phone without saying goodbye. Cindy will understand.
Uncontrollable sobs flow out of me before I can stop them. My eyes burn as the tears mix with my mascara, my ribs constrict, and my chest aches right in the center. I try to control my breathing.
“I see a desk,” I whimper to myself. Shaky breaths stammer out of me as I clutch my neck, and my heartbeat hammers against my fingers.
“I hear my pump.” I focus on the steady whoosh noise coming from the wall.
“I feel my ear lobes.” I tug on them.
“I taste salt,” I say, licking the tears that have now found their way to my lips.
“Pull yourself together, Em.”
Out of habit, and reluctant need for my person, I type a message to Steven on shaky fingers. Pressing send feels painful.
Me: Are you busy?
He responds almost immediately.
Steven: Are you alright?
Normally, he’d tell me if the day is hectic or if he’s caught up. When he says neither, it means he’s drowning at work and doesn’t want me to worry, which means I don’t need to tell him what just happened. I don’t need to add to his plate. I can handle this on my own. Ineedto handle this on my own.
The simmering anxiety in my gut almost convinces me I can’t, but I swallow hard and shove my phone aside. When the pump finishes, I gather my things and head back to my office.
Once the milk is stored and my pump parts are cleaned—all in less than two minutes, a new record—another text comes through.
Steven: Emma?
Emma: I’m fine, just checking in.
Steven: Did you get a packageyet? :)
“A package?” I ask myself, turning a quick circle around the room, confirming there are no obscure packages to account for. Before I can respond, a knock, followed by a swift whoosh of the door, comes. Ellie shuffles in, carrying the hysterically large floral arrangement from earlier, now in a fresh vase. The flowers, an array of pinks and reds, are so vibrant and expensive looking, a pit forms in my stomach.
“What is that?” I ask, tucking my phone away.
